


Speaking Through Quicksand

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [68]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Q on Assignment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-31 01:30:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15108962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Q goes to bed with Bond because he has to. Why he stays is...more complicated.





	Speaking Through Quicksand

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Enemies to lovers. Prompt from this [generator](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com/prompts).
> 
> One of those "no idea how this prompt = this fic" days, it seems.

Q goes to bed with Bond because he has to. Why he stays is...more complicated.

First of all, there can’t be any question that sending him hook, line, and gadgets to Lima, Peru with virtually no warning borders on cruel. He hates flying; HQ knows that, so with less than six hours of lead time, he has barely enough time to pack a bag and kiss the cats, never mind work himself up properly for the prospect of 13 hours in a metal tube hurtling over the relative safety of the earth.

“Take a deep breath,” Moneypenny tells him on his way out the door, pressing a packet into his palm. “And take two of these once you’re airborne. You won’t know anything until you hit the ground.”

“That’s precisely what I’m afraid of.”

She does her very best not to laugh. Doesn’t quite succeed, but still. “Most people would be more worried about the shit storm that they’re about to step into, rather than how they’ll be getting to said shit storm.”

“Yes, well.” He shifts the bag on his shoulder. “Most people aren’t me.”

Moneypenny does laugh then, a warm sound that echoes the squeeze of her hand on his elbow. “Oh,” she says, “I know. And that’s exactly why they’re sending you, pip.”

It isn’t until he’s made Lima, stumbled off the plane and through Customs and into the ridiculously bright main terminal, that he starts to understand what she meant.

Because Bond is there, waiting for him in white shorts and a deep blue cotton shirt that make his eyes look like a crime. He’s relaxed and tanned and painfully gorgeous and something in Q’s rumpled, sweaty heart stumbles, a drunken man on a staircase. And that’s before Bond smiles and says:

“Darling! There you are. I was starting to worry.”

“Why?” Q says. “You knew what flight I was--”

Bond grabs him--a not altogether unpleasant thing--and pulls him close, whispers: “You’re supposed to be glad to see me. Three months parted, and all that.”

Q isn’t sure what to do with his hands, much less with his good sense, because lord, Bond smells good: like sunshine mixed with rum punch. “Yes. I did read the mission brief, you know.”

Bond nuzzles his cheek, the softness of the stroke belying his tone. “Then act like it. Put your arms around my neck--yes, like that. Good. And step a little closer to me. That’s right.” A smile, a sharp little thing. “Now. I’m going to kiss you. Do try to act as though you enjoy it, all right?”

Q’s face is a flame. “I’ll try.”

“Ah,” Bond says, louder now, in a voice undeniably fond, “that’s my boy.”

There’s a moment before Bond kisses him and a moment after, and in between, he realizes how long it’s been since he’s been kissed anybody, much less by somebody who knew what they're doing and Bond _knows._ Christ, does he. The man's mouth is all at once lush and demanding, soft and insistent, and he’s touching Q, too; cupping Q’s face in one hand and stilling his hips with the other and oh god, the beautiful things he does with his tongue, _fuck_. It’s not Q’s fault that he moans, that his hands slip to Bond’s broad shoulders and dig in, do their best to hang on. 

Yes, this is Bond’s job and yes, they’re in the middle of an airport surrounded by strangers, a few of whom probably want to kill them, others moving through their everyday lives, but still it strikes Q that there’s no way for him to tell them what’s changed, that his life has just tipped over sideways, that there are answers to questions he didn’t know he should be asking in the soft, greedy suck of Bond’s mouth.

“Yes,” Bond says, a word dragged through hot sand. “I do need to get you home, don’t I?” He kisses the curve of Q’s neck. “Nobody should see you like this except me.”

It’s like trying to speak through quicksand. “Like--?”

Then Bond is swinging the bag from Q’s shoulder and turning to face the real world, reaching out for Q’s hand. “Come on, darling. The car's waiting. You’re going to love Peru."


End file.
